


Stan Acquires a Dog

by Weresnake



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fix-it fic, Gen, Stan Lives, doggo - Freeform, huuuuge suicide tw, sorta - Freeform, stan still tries but thwarts himself once again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weresnake/pseuds/Weresnake
Summary: A fix it fic where Stan lives but the fear of going still makes him hesitate to go back. Its not the fear of facing the very thing that haunted him since he first faced It, but the hospital room far, far away from Maine he’s currently stuck in for trying to take his life.





	Stan Acquires a Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Heyoo, just thought I'd reupload this with more polish.  
This is more of an exercise in getting the right feel for Stan so i could write the next chapter of dogs and crepes but i also wanted to explore more of if he survived as well.

His bed was cold and the room looked just as barren as he felt internally in the moment. He woke up staring at the blank canvas ceiling, replaying the moments of the last day or so like a broken record. Over and over, he picked at himself through his memories of the dwindling mental health and the phone call that finally sent him over. Nurses poked, and Doctors prodded, yet he laid docile and silent to their questioning as he was just too tired and numb to answer. Oh, and the shame too. The shame of failing the losers club he can just barely remember and now the shame of knowing he failed his parents once more as well.

He curled into himself and gives a long, tired sigh. A tall nurse opens the door and strides over to check the blood bag linked to his arm, suspended over him like a red, grisly reminder of that menace he thought they defeated so long ago. She scribbles some notes while avoiding eye contact with him, so he ducks his head under his pillow. He waits for her to leave and upon hearing her footsteps recede out the door, a new heavier sounding set of steps is replaced. He peaks out to a portly woman pull up a seat by him.

“Hello Mr. Urise.”

He gives a curt nod in acknowledging her, knowing what was to come. It was suffocating, knowing he couldn’t exactly explain to her the situation he is in without making it harder to get out of here. ‘Right. So an evil, shapeshifting clown by the name of Pennywise nearly killed me and my childhood friends when we were little except that now, just recently one of said friends told me that it’s not only alive but still murderous…. So I tried taking the cowardly way out. That’ll be 100 milligrams of the strongest shit you can legally prescribe for this nutcase, my esteemed doctor. Please and thank you.’

“How are you feeling?” She asks, pulling him back to the present.

His mouth feels dry, he hates how his tongue just sits uselessly as he tries to form some reasonable answer. So he shrugs.

“Mr. Urise, it is good to see you in the land of the living. Just know that there is no shame in sharing how you feel and why you decided to take your own life. Many people survive from such actions but it is extremely common for them to end up disfigured or worse as a result, you’ve had the extreme luck of surviving despite the extreme blood loss.” She gives him an expectant look, silently asking for some kind of response.

He blinks slow, not feeling lucky in the slightest. She stares back and with a sigh stares down at her board to scratch some more notes.

“I have a deal I want to propose, if you want to eventually discharge and join the rest of the living world.” She sets aside her notepad and lays both hands on her lap.

“Sometimes, an animal can help a person be more at ease and even steady the mind from careening back to that dark place, you know? We have a small selection of emotional support animals that the local shelter occasionally provides, and we’d be happy to lend you a pet to give you some small joy while living through your lowest point.”  
His expression softens at the thought of something to hold and pet, but he waits for the cost that sure enough arrives:

“If you accept the terms, I do expect you to open up more to our questions. You may not believe this, but we want what’s best for you. Your life is worth a great deal to the people around you.”

He nods again as his thoughts drift back to his friends. A sick feeling pooled in his stomach thinking about the rest of the losers club running off into grave danger while he sits in bed petting some animal and lying through his teeth, because who the fuck in this building would understand what’s truly going on with his life except his friends.

“Mister Urise?” A voice now soaked with knee-deep frustration interrupts him again and he blinks hard at the doctor. Right, lets take this one step at a time.

“I-“ It comes out with an unexpected cough but he continues. “-would like that very much.”

She perks up considerably at his answer and stands up. “Excellent! I look forward to setting up some kind of care plan for when you are discharged so that we can work together towards bettering your mental health.”

Like that was going to happen, Stan thinks bitterly.

“We have a dog you can hold in the meantime while we go through the process of selecting you a proper companion and work on the process of making sure you are mentally stable enough not to try killing yourself again. Keep in mind this kind of request takes a bit of time and you will likely be checked into a facility by the time you finally get the animal.”

He nods once more. His whole body language is that of a deflated balloon, but there’s a smile hopeful enough to pull at his lips at the prospect of getting some small distraction from his current mess. She checks his IV and stitches while asking if he felt any pain or discomfort. Satisfied with his meek answers, she leaves. Now alone, he wracks his brain for a plan, any plan. If he wanted to play it safe he would have to go through all the motions of therapy and the recovery needed of him but by then, his friends would have either killed the clown or be killed, and he couldn’t bear to have that.

On the other hand, he could try leaving early somehow and make sure that if there were any casualty, it would only be himself. Each and every one of his friends deserved a long life free of the monster, the least he could do is to make himself live bait if need be. Still, he shudders at what pure horror that clown had waiting for them all.

The grim train of thought vanishes when he sees a small honey-colored dog hurtle excitedly into his room. In the instant it reaches his bed, it begins yapping its little brain off until Stan cranes himself low enough to scoop up the Pomeranian. Its noises cease and Stan sputters at his face now being attacked with its excited kissing.

“This little guys name is Hero. He was rescued from a landfill and is still in the process of finding a forever home, but in the meantime, he’s been doing an excellent job of lifting the spirits of other patients here.” Dr. Belham says, happy with how effective the emotional support dog is already.

Stan finds himself giggling at the dog’s friendliness. “Why Hero?” he asks, holding his face as far away from the dog as he could manage.

“You mean why they picked the name? Its because he’s just such a brave little thing in both living through the worst and encouraging others to keep fighting like him.”

“Sounds tacky.” Is all he says about it and the doctors face twists to a poorly hidden scowl. She starts to leave once more, probably to attend other patients, but lingers in the doorway as one final thing comes to mind.

“Oh and Mr. Urise? Your parents called, they should be arriving here in an hour or so to visit you. They sound very upset.”

His jaw slackens and the dog whines softly at the cease of attention. The lady leaves and he sits cross-legged in his shitty bed. He couldn’t- he really didn’t want to face them again. Not after he told them that he strongly doubted he would ever meet someone and still didn’t wish to face them again after he just tried ending his own life.

Hero pads to the edge of his bed facing the window and barks at the house finch sitting there. His eyes follow the dog, then fixate on the bird. Head slowly cocking at an angle with one single, absurd thought rattling in his skull.

Surely it couldn’t be so easy for the best accountant in all of Georgia to make a break for Maine, would it?

Would it?

Concluding his story, the entire losers club sitting at the table stare at him like a palette holding various shades of concern. His eyes first meet Beverley’s and what he first notice is the hand over her mouth and the heartbreak burning through her eyes. If it weren’t for the table dividing him from her, he was sure she would smother him in a hug and he’s almost glad for it.   
Looking away from Beverly, he almost glosses over Ben but he does a double take when he sees the man open his mouth to say something possibly heartfelt but most likely to still stumble out awkwardly but for some strange reason Ben closes his mouth again and swallows his words. 

Mike stares at the empty plate resting in front of him. It didn’t take a genius to guess what was racing through his mind, but Stan would have to reassure him when they catch a moment together that it wasn’t his fault in the slightest. 

Eddie and Richie's mouths are agape like twin fishes, although it surprises Stan that there was no interruption of some snarky comment or immature derailing from Richie. If Stans fractured memory served, his mouth ran like a freight train, spewing a constant stream of conscience that was typical for a half-witted preteens brain. It added to the echo of impact of Stans choice, then reversal of said decision.

Bill looked unreadable, and that was what troubled him most. He could stand some sympathy, some guilt on the others end, or jumbled attempts to lighten the mood, but not knowing what Big Bill was thinking made his stomach churn with assumptions pointing to the worst. 

“Holy shit.” Richie finally utters. The others gaze snap to him.

“Yeah I get it, I was being a huge coward trying to take the easy way out instead of helping you all face this monster like a better person.”

Richie raises both palms at him, his eyes conveying the most sincerity Stan has seen in a while. “No Stan, escaping a hospital with a dog you stole all after experiencing possibly the worst day of your life AND still making it all the way here to fight a murder clown is ballsy as SHIT.”

He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding as do the others. It’s a simple answer, but comforting enough break of the grim tension that he feels with the stifling spotlight drawing back to Richie. Then, its as if the pendulum swings the other direction and the tone turns back to the familiar bickering Stan only recalled in distant dreams. Everything slowly settling back to the deeply worn grooves of who they were as kids. It felt…. Like he really was coming home, in a sense. Maybe returning here was a good idea after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Stan: haha i cant just run off to Derry just after nearly killing myself  
Stan: Unless....


End file.
